


The Mystic and the Rat

by LuminescenTT



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark Past, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Friendship, Healthy Relationships, Love/Hate, Moving On, Murder, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24818623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminescenTT/pseuds/LuminescenTT
Summary: The Drifter seeks help from an unlikely comrade, as the shadows of his many past lives return to haunt him.Eris Morn finds an unexpected friend in an unlikable renegade, as the looming war threatens to unravel everything she's built.Within the grey area that separates the Light from the Darkness, sometimes all you need is a friend by your side.(Updates weekly-ish).
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	1. Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the Season of Arrivals. Please exercise caution when reading, and do NOT proceed if you do not wish to be spoiled. Contains spoilers for: the Prophecy dungeon, The Singular Exegete lore book, and the Season's overall storyline.

He sits on his chair, settled and snug by the control panel perched above the room, and watches the Young Wolf gear up. Their Gnawing Hunger - a new version, gifted from the Darkness - catches small glints from below the dim, sparse neon of the Derelict’s ceiling lights. Their armor glimmers for a while as their Ghost transmats a full set of Taken-specced armor, crafted from the bones and sinew of the wish-dragon slain in the depths of the Awoken homeworld. _That's some proper gear right there._

A small smile creeps onto the Drifter’s face as he notices the dark, ominous glow emanating from the holstered grenade launcher. His favorite Guardian appreciates his craftsmanship. What a touching gesture.

The Young Wolf’s fireteam - a Titan and a Warlock, to finish the conventional trio - gears up in similar armor. _Looks like this team’s ready to rumble._ He watches them do run-throughs, checking once and twice again. For some reason, his hand shakes as he grips on the lever.

He closes his eyes and shakes away his worries. As he opens them again, he notices the Young Wolf looking straight at him, past the opaque one-way mirror. His Ghost tunes into the frequency, and the Drifter taps its shell twice. Mic check. “You’re all set, Hero. Find us some answers.” With a grin, the Drifter pulls the lever down and activates the Haul’s mechanism.

The portal in front of the fireteam opens to show the Nine’s realm. An eerie purple glow seeps into the room as the connection is established. But before his Ghost has a chance to turn off the communicator, a voice reaches out from beyond the firmament.

 _Her_ voice speaks. “Three Guardians and a Dredgen ask a question,” the voice mockingly says.

He acquiesces. “What is the Darkness?”

 _They_ respond. “Our answer lies before you.”

With that, the three heroes of the Vanguard jump into the fray. He watches as they are sucked into the portal. Less than a minute later, gunshots ring from the three as they assault the Nine’s parallel dimension.

He sighs, turning on the feed on his control panel. Time to sit back and watch.

* * *

The screens continue to show a cacophony of death and desolation set against an endless marble gray desert. The three Guardians, having made their way through the first two of the Nine’s puzzles, drive across this wasteland of a foreign dimension in search of their answer.

The Drifter is chewing on a roasted and seasoned Thrall leg, absentmindedly playing with his cards and twiddling his hallmark jade coin, when he hears _her_ voice again. This time, for real - inflection, tone, personality.

_“Guardian. Guardian, are you there?”_

He spits out the chunk of meat and scrambles to sit upright. _What the hell._ Discreetly listening in to the Guardian’s comms, his single raised eyebrow slowly joins the other one as he glares in disbelief.

_“This is Orin, of the Firebreak Order… and the Pilgrim Guard before that.”_

The mocking tone of the Nine is not present. _Oh, hell no. She’s back. No, no, no. That ain’t right._

_“I have forced a respite from the Nine. I repeat, this is NOT their Emissary.”_

Once again, her voice echoes with a disturbingly human like tone. _Damn. That’s definitely her. How the hell is she breaking through the Nine?_

He continues to watch the correspondence in disbelief. A once-upon forgotten time friend, in a time of crisis, returns to him in the most unexpected of ways. She was the only one he trusted. She would have been the only one he would ever trust. The Young Wolf listens intently at Orin’s pleas. So, too, does the Drifter listen.

_“Trust what you see-at your peril. Trust what you’re told-at your peril. Including anything you hear from this voice.”_

The Drifter stifles his laugh. _Orin, the hell you tellin' the Young Wolf?_ He shakes his head in disbelief. _This… is where you at, now? You got what you asked for, kid._

He continues to watch the situation unfold. Orin, in desperation, begs the heroes not to take the Nine at face value. The Drifter takes no notice. Old memo. He knew that the very first time _they_ approached, in _her_ body. The visage of Orin leaves the fireteam with a few parting words of encouragement. And, just as quickly as it had started, the encounter ends.

The Drifter duly takes note of the rest of the ordeal, as the fireteam of three continue their trek across the embodied Prophecy. The retro consoles of Bray past, the telltale signs of a madman’s penthouse, bones from the planet with the Tree, and a methane-wracked platform, all enter the Drifter’s observation notes. He notes the Kell Echo’s appearance with a lingering interest. And finally, with all said and done, he wraps up the encounter and prepares to pull the fireteam back.

A voice crackles in from the communicator, interrupting the revelry. “Drifter. What have you done, you insufferable rat man?”

The Drifter’s comeback is sharp, merciless. “ _Hey._ Our mutual friend had a question. We all did. So we asked the Nine.” He entertains the back-and-forth for a while before the Young Wolf’s team returns, and then scoffs at the forgotten blade as the channel shuts down. _So I’m the guy that deals with the devil, huh. Takes one to know one._

With the duality of light and dark hammered in big, bold, extra-dimensional letters, Drifter retires to his cove down by the Annex. He oversees a few Gambit matches and helps a few newer Lights with the Umbral Decoder. Nowhere in his mind does the image of Orin stay. Of course not.

* * *

It is three past midnight. The red eye of his Ghost is the only thing that glows in this portion of the Drifter’s chambers. All the lights are off, and the Tower is relatively silent, save for the stray Guardian or two that come in to decode their newfound stash of loot after a day of fighting. He comes out to meet them if they ever need a few Gambit bounties - his Ghost will alert him so. Otherwise, though, he stays secluded, silently studying the new data coming in from the Blooms on the field - and, more importantly, the Seed.

The new data flickers into existence. He taps on the screen, magnifying and highlighting Eris’ unveiling of the Darkness’ new message. His Hero had broken the interference an hour ago, as was asked of them by the two - much appreciated now. The singular word comes up, accompanied by its original logograph.

_Eggshell?_

He is puzzled. He skims over Eris’ explanation. Then, he puzzles over it again. As he reads the transmission, his thoughts wander to the earlier clear of the Nine’s Prophecy, only a few days ago. Eris’ words from earlier silently ring in his head.

“Moondust, Moondust. Playin’ around with the Darkness. Ain’t we all.” He sighs, forlorn eyes shifting, taking a peek at the gun he keeps with him all the time. His right hand was always ready to draw. Still is.

Eris’ little trinkets, usually found wrapped around her (as she was, and still is, quite fond of wearing them), enters Drifter’s mind. A handcrafted necklace. A mark of chains. A red, leatherbound journal. A talisman. And a pack of letters, tightly wrapped. His Ghost, a few moons back, was the one who sought out the meaning of what each trinket represented. _Represents_ , rather. She still speaks of her fireteam of old. Still holds those trinkets.

He gets what she’s been through. He doesn’t get why she’d keep those cursed things with her at all times.

His musings drift further. His hands and eyes begin to falter. From beyond time, a voice summons itself.

_“This… ‘friendship’. Or whatever you want to call it… it’s over.”_

Orin.

“I trusted you. You said you were never coming back.”

The screen continues to update with more data, but it has fallen by the wayside as dredged memories return. The voice from the Wasteland drags itself out of his past, bringing with it a hundred different phantoms he desperately wants, but cannot keep, buried.

“You were my friend. Now, after decades of seein’ what I’m seein’, all ‘cause of you- You think you can just come back like this and dig it all up, huh. Huh?!”

His face tenses up, right hand firmly gripped on his Trust.

“The game’s nearing the climax, and I can’t afford any distraction. Everythin’s at stake. My plan is set. I don’t need any of your bullcrap, so get out of my-”

He grips the gun too tightly. _BANG!_

“AH!” The Drifter shouts out as the solar bullet enters his right foot. “Goddamn! This hurts! Drifter, you clumsy little fella, watch the trigger!” He grips the desk as his Ghost quickly comes out of hiding to try to help him. A scanning, whirring sound later, and the wound patches itself in mere seconds. A quick recovery. He stumbles a bit as he tries to get his bearings, then returns to look at the screen.

He looks right and left. No one was in the vicinity - the room is still as empty as ever. _Reckon someone heard it. Hope they ain’t choosin’ today to care._

Orin’s voice returns to the forefront, eliciting a consuming feeling that boils his insides. His hands shake. His breaths hasten, then slow down, as he resumes control. He paces his breathing. The hive logographs on the screen return to his focus. He has work to do.

Ghost picks up a transmission. “Rat. Guardian activity is picking up again. You need to be ready when they engage with the Deep.” Eris Morn’s stern and commanding voice lifts Drifter out of his stupor.

“Alright, alright, sister. Take a moment, will ya? I’ll be there in a sec. Trust.”

As he closes the feed and prepares another one of his banks for transmat, Eris’ mementos silently poke at his head. Memories of Orin, cast aside by his responsibilities, mix with his thoughts on the Ghostless Hunter.

Suddenly, he feels like he needs to see the action up close. For no particular reason, ‘course.

“Get the jumpship. We’re heading over to Io.”


	2. Phantoms

“Hm. I’m not sure if I can use this oil again.”

Eris hums as she lifts the wok off the fire. Her face is one of questioning. Why is the oil suddenly so dirty? Her mind attempts to pull her to a separate tangent, but she doesn’t let it disturb her. She can hum Savathun’s Song for all she cares. Right now, what she wants is a good, hot ready meal.

_Ah, I put on too much heat, didn’t I…_

She sets the wok on a pile of metal crates by her tent. Her camp is simple - a powerful Golden Age electric stove sits beside a simple campfire. The (rather large) green tent, and a number of crates of materials, circle the makeshift cooking station to create a nice little corner she can call her own. A narrow yet tall cave, branching off from the path that leads to the Tree of Silver Wings, houses all of this humble abode of hers. A tarp covers the entrance, not as if it would stop any Hive or Taken from entering. But it’s a start. Even away from the comfort of her home on the Moon, she finds that she enjoys this place.

_Sai. Omar. Vell. Eriana. If only you were here..._

The fire slowly burns away, wisping into nothing more than a small flame. She picks up her Hive leather notebook and opens it up to her latest entry. She had written a small list of things to acquire earlier that day. The only thing still not crossed out is the mysterious pine-apple. She sighs at the sight of this unwelcome intruder; a blemish on her neat little to-do list.

Beeping sounds suddenly blare from inside the tent. Her console lights up. Another Pyramid Scale has arrived.

“It calls again. Perhaps it is time I get back to work.”

She moves back into the tent and heads to the back end, leaving the campfire embers to cool down. She walks past the mementos she keeps with her, set neatly in a corner of her tent, and steps over her sleeping bag. She taps the keyboard to awaken the console. The screen turns on, and a live feed of two, three, then four different Guardians enter her vision. One by one the screen fills up, until a complete Fireteam of nine assemble below the Scale. The most decorated of the group, an Unbroken Titan, steps forward and plants the transmat beacon.

The Titan stands back up and draws her Mindbender’s Ambition, but before she can do anything else, she is immediately pulverized when the Drifter’s bank manifests. _Strange._ Her Ghost, equally surprised, resurrects her on a cliff edge not far from the event. Hordes of Vex begin to teleport in and engage the team of nine. The firefight begins, and even from the distance of the Cradle, Eris can hear the large explosions of Nova Bombs going off.

“That… is a new record,” Eris mumbles. “That rat has never transmatted a bank that quickly. Unless…”

She sets aside the feed momentarily, and accesses the Vanguard’s interplanetary traffic logs. The keyword “Derelict” is typed into the search bar, and after a second of loading, she finds the manifest entry she’s looking for. An unreported exit by the Drifter from the Tower was logged only thirty minutes ago. That was the last time she had spoken to him. Her suspicions solidifying further, she checks for any orbital entries onto Io.

An incredibly recent entry is highlighted. Vanguard networks register atmospheric entry from the Drifter’s Derelict, despite no currently sanctioned (or reported) Gambit or Gambit Prime matches.

Eris frowns. “Drifter. Why are you coming here?”

* * *

In true jury-rigged, kitbash fashion, the hull of the Derelict rumbles and rattles as the ship enters the atmosphere of Io at high speed. The Drifter sits in his pilot seat, preoccupied with his own worries, hand absentmindedly flipping his jade coin. His Ghost, meanwhile, calmly maneuvers through the clouds as they head towards the Cradle.

With a solid _clink_ , the jade coin lands, showing a Pyramid on its face. Right on cue, the dark angular trespasser crests the horizon and slowly grows in size. The massive object dwarfs everything in sight, sharp opaque body casting a black shadow on the surface of Io. Electricity arcs on its underside, striking multiple points on the textured crater, while strobing lights punctuate the many grooves of the ship. Beneath it, a bright yellow beam of light shines from the Cradle.

The Drifter frowns. He takes manual control of the thrusters and slows down to cruising speed to avoid the Pyramid.

A crackling sound comes through from the communicator. “Drifter. I saw a Vanguard alert. What are you doing here?”

“Nothin’ much, Three-eyes,” Drifter replies, steering the Derelict towards the ongoing Contact event below. The green-and-teal landscape of Io is nothing more than a blur as he speeds through the sky. “I just think I need a better view of the… _action_. If you catch my… drift.” He stands up and steps away from the cockpit, letting Ghost take control of the ship.

“You lie. The rat I know would rather die than put one foot on the frontline.”

Drifter snickers at her response. “Hah. That’s where you’re wrong, Moondust.” He closes the communications channel and heads to his favorite sightseeing spot on the ship. The viewing port by the Derelict’s aft slides open to show a perfect bird’s eye view of the ground. From there, he can spot the Pyramid Scale hovering above the Pyramidion’s entrance, and below it, tiny little specks and the bright flashes that accompany them.

Vex continue to pour in from all directions, but the Guardians on the field spend no time worrying. The Unbroken Titan pulls out a newly forged sword and demolishes the incoming Vex champion in a spinning flurry of sharp strikes. Immediately, she picks up the newly generated Bloom, and heads to the Drifter’s bank in the middle. The Drifter himself watches in muted fascination, observing the spectacle going on below him, as the Titan deftly handles her Bloom in a way that allows her to deposit more than what would usually be possible.

“Guardians. Always making their own rules.”

After a mere two minutes of constant slaughter, a massive Taken Ogre - dubbed the Monstrosity by Moondust on Contact comms - appears. It is slayed in mere seconds by the fireteam of nine as they mercilessly hammer down on the unwelcome intruder. Drifter smiles at the sheer efficiency of Guardian combat, congratulates those on the field for another good run, then watches as the Pyramid Scale disappears. 

Without any gunshots nor explosions, the silence of the Rupture slowly returns. Something slithers in the sky, catching the Drifter’s attention. From the scale’s resting spot, he observes a shadow move and phase through the sky, rejoining its parent Pyramid. And so again do his eyes rest on the looming angular shadow - the Pyramid, unmoving, beckoning him to come closer.

He lets his gaze falter. For a minute, his vision rests on the trespasser, unfocused.

...

The Drifter shakes his head. _What am I doing here?_ After a solid moment of loitering, he decides to stand. 

But as he is about to do so, something else manifests. A floating red shadow just metres away from the glass of his viewing port. It is shaped like a human, hunched down and relaxed, almost slumbering. It does not move. It does not do anything but lift its head at the Drifter.

The Nightmare and the rogue make eye contact. The trap is set. It morphs, ever so slowly, until it resembles something more familiar to Wu Ming’s eyes.

He’s seen this before. “Tryin’ to play tricks on me, huh?”

He turns back to face the cockpit and is met by the same phantom. Startled, he steps back for a moment, before deciding to push forward. _They ain’t usually this persistent._ The shadow is incorporeal and easily gives way, but it remanifests itself in front of the Drifter’s eyes once he pushes through. He grits his teeth and walks past it. Again. And again. And again, until it hovers right above the ship’s controls, dead center in the middle of the cockpit. They have walked in a straight line from the rear of the ship to the front end.

He narrows his eyes. “What the _hell_ do you want, Orin?”

The phantom says nothing, but hovers down, setting its feet on the grated pathway of the Derelict. It moves through the Drifter again, seemingly set on making him walk back and forth.

Drifter turns around once more. “Not saying anything, huh. What’cha gonna do? Leave, again?” His right hand is set on his holster, Trust ready to draw.

Orin stops, then looks back to meet the Drifter’s lonely gaze. “There is nothing to be said. Not to a lonely, desperate coward like you.” The red eyes of the phantom dig deep into the Drifter’s soul.

“Desperate. Desperate? Like when _you_ went past the System in search of a God that would never have helped you?”

“Oh, Wu Ming,” mocks the phantom in return. “Why are you still angry?” 

“Piss off. I don’t want you here.”

The shadow does not listen. “Don’t you see?” Orin steps closer and places her hand on the Drifter’s shoulder. “The Nine have given me _everything._ The Light is my sacred weapon now. My gift can end wars. Wars you could not have survived without your meddling of the Deep.”

The Drifter pushes the foreign hand off him. “No. Whatever you are, you ain’t real. I hear you _begging_ in the Prophecies of the Nine, reaching out to the Hero. You don’t want them to listen to you. You don’t want to be a puppet - you want to be _free!_ ” He pulls out the Trust and drives it up her chin. “The Light is a _curse_. It never gave me a choice. Never gave you one, either.”

The shadow easily grips the gun, and effortlessly moves the Drifter’s arm away. “Oh... Eli. Your biggest mistake was thinking we had a choice at all.”

The grin on Orin’s face stretches from ear to ear, Awoken blood pooling under her lips from the unnatural contortion. She stops taunting the terrorised rogue, and turns her back on him - begins walking towards the aft viewing port, back the way she came from. Beyond the glass, the visage of the Pyramid is visible.

“Where are you going?” He levels the gun, sight on her head.

Her voice echoes. _“Away, my dear. Keep playing the game.”_

“ _No._ Come. Back. We are not finished-”

_“The Dredgen has visions. They disturb him-”_

“Orin! You are NOT leaving!” The Drifter reaches out, rushing forward, but a hundred red shadows immediately manifest and seize him. His arms are held by a thousand dark fingers. His feet are frozen. He cannot push through the pool of crimson, and his body feels powerless. Through a tiny gap in the Nightmares’ grip, he can see Orin phase through the glass and return to the Pyramid, walking on thin air, weightless. “ORIN! NO! COME BACK!”

No answer.

His pasts begin their rite of torture.

“ _...it’s Eaton. That’s the name of this village...”_

The Drifter shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “No, no no no no- stop stop stop-”

_“…Lady had a tattoo of a snake. Right here…”_

A desperate rat lashes out with his right arm and punches the air. “SHUT UP!”

_“...we should never have come here. I can’t feel the Light. I can’t feel the Light…”_

"No.” Empty knees give way, and the wanderer comes crashing down onto the floor. “No. I… I make my own choices. I make... my own... choices...”

_"_ _The Darkness will be your_ **_salvation._** _"_

His body suddenly loses all life. His spine, bones, weapons, armor, all anchor him - sink him into the floor. His vision is slowly flooded with an all-consuming crimson before a darkness envelops it all. The last thing he sees is his Ghost, red-eyed and frantic, engines suddenly disabled, falling onto the ground with him as its Light dies out.

Before his mind drifts away, he hears footsteps.

* * *

The pungent aroma of fried rice fills the air, enters his nostrils, stirs him from his sleep. Already he feels lighter. The ground is of cloth over rock, and not of metal, but still as uneven either way.

The warmth of a campfire rouses his muscles awake. His nerves start to register more. His eyes open.

_This isn’t the Derelict._

The Drifter sits straight up, blanket shooting into the air. He looks right and left, then up and down, then moves his hands over his holster. His holster is not there. His hands search the area around him and find nothing. He looks around once more. It is merely a small space, with nowhere else to be, and nowhere else to go. The cloth billows under a soft breeze. He realizes what he is in.

A tired, confused Drifter crawls out of the tent and is greeted by a warm fire and a wok. Eris, holding a metal spatula, deftly flips the rice around and adds seasoning as she goes. A pinch of salt here, a handful of pepper there, and a little bit of soy sauce tops it all off. Her eyes look up to acknowledge the waking man, if only for a moment, and then returns to the meal-in-progress.

“Moondust.” The Drifter rubs his eyes. “How… how the hell did I get here?”

Eris does not lift her gaze from her cooking. “I pulled you out of your ship, Rat. You were surrounded by-”

“Nightmares.” The vision of Orin returns to him, but he brushes it off. “Is it over?”

She lifts the wok from the electric stove and lets it cool down on a nearby metal crate. “It is done. You may rest now.” The unpleasant, hollow sound of cheap metal dinner plates ring in the Drifter’s ears. “As many questions as I have for you, I think they can be saved for later.”

The Drifter silently nods, then closes his eyes. He crashes onto the solid rock outside the tent, and lets himself drift.


	3. Burdens

“Rat.” Eris begins. “You have always opted to stay away from Pyramids. Never have I seen you in the forefront of a battle. So why is it that today, out of all the days in the universe, have you decided to visit?”

The Drifter sits on hard Io rock, slightly covered in the mineral dust of the planet, legs crossed and body relaxed. On one hand, he holds a bowl of freshly cooked fried rice, served with beef jerky courtesy of the Vanguard’s food stores and Eris’ masterful cooking. On the other… he holds no fork. His right hand dives straight into the meal, and he consumes with a vigorous passion. Food crumbs fly off the bowl and litter the ground, cover his armour, and enter the lit campfire.

Eris stares at the Drifter eating like a starved lunatic, but says nothing as she waits for her answer. The meretricious rogue takes his sweet time swallowing his food before replying.

“Drifter just wanted a few close looks at the Pyramid, that’s all.” He wipes his mouth on his armor’s sleeve. “Ain’t nothin’ much to it, Moondust,” he finishes, looking to Eris with his trademark smirk.

“Annoying.” She glares at the Drifter in response. “How little respect do you have for me, that you would tell such a blatant lie?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he snaps back. “What kinda answer you were expectin’, huh? ‘Ol’ Drifter lookin’ for some help from a fellow explorer of the Dark?’”

“Ah.” Eris’ face relaxes, and the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “So that is your answer.”

“Shut up, Three-eyes.”

The Drifter returns to his food and continues to chow down. Eris’ invisible coy smile stays as she stands and heads back into her tent, leaving the Drifter alone for a few moments. When she returns, she taps the Drifter’s shoulders to get his attention. He looks up to see her holding a set of assorted worn-out accessories. He raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

Eris holds her trinkets up right in front of her guest’s face. “Do you know what these are, Drifter?”

“Shoot. Let me guess.” He ponders for a moment. “Clearance rack from the City Dollar Store.”

“You insult me.”

“I’m just messin’ with ya, sister.” The Drifter snickers, then stops, before turning to look at Eris. “No, seriously. What’cha’ got for me?”

Eris sits across the Drifter on cold hard Io rock, looking for a more comfortable position, then leans back on the crates as she settles. She brings one of her trinkets - a handcrafted, carved necklace - closer to her face. “These,” Eris begins, “are my mementos. I do not usually explain them to anyone, and those who do see them do not typically understand what they mean to me. In that regard, consider yourself lucky.”

“Unless this story gets any more boring, I don’t see any luck in here at all.”

Eris does not respond to the jab. “This necklace belonged to Sai. The carvings and the material say it all. The Guardian brought it to me in an act of… unexpected kindness.” She sets it down and picks up another memento before continuing. “In time, such little pieces of memorabilia have become essential to me. These letters, for example, have kept me company in these darkest hours.” She hands the wrapped pack of letters to the Drifter, and he receives them with curiosity. “They are… part of me, now.”

The Drifter picks up the letters and observes them closely, turning them ever so often. Then, he slides them back. “I already know the story of your Fireteam. I knew them, way back when, if only for a lil’ bit.” He glances at the other trinkets. “You ain’t tellin’ me anything new, and I know where this is going.”

“Then you know that the Pyramid on the moon tried to tempt me - break me - with the shadows of my past, too.”

“And that these trinkets stopped ‘em, put ‘em at bay.”

Eris nods, pleased at the Drifter’s understanding. “Come. Walk with me.” She stands up, smothers the wisping flame with a bit of water, and then heads to the mouth of the small cave.

“The hell? Where’d we even wanna go?”

“To the Tree, of course. It is… a better setting for this conversation.”

* * *

The Drifter quickly gears up with his weapons and armor before rushing out to follow Eris. He meets her outside the little tarp covering their base, and together, they set off on a short trek to the center of the Cradle. The echoing of their boots reverberate with each step, and the walls of the cave amplify every little noise. The cave itself is akin to a large, winding ravine, with cracks on the roof spilling light into the formation’s dark corners. Little sets of stalagmites and stalactites line the sides, and drips of water ring through the cavern.

A Thrall peeks out of a small crevice and is met by a quick load of solar from the Drifter’s hand cannon.

“Your aim is sharp.”

“Gotta keep it precise, Three-eyes. You know that.” He puts his smoking Trust back in the holster.

They continue walking forward. Eris moves closer to the decaying Thrall corpse, and picks up the scurrying worm inside of it. She observes it crawling on her palm for a while, searching for a new host in a desperate dance of death, before crushing it.

“Did you ever eat Worms during the Dark Age, too?”

The Drifter nods. “Eat anythin’, eat everythin’. That’s how you survive out in the wild.”

“I see.” She wipes the blood from her hand and throws the carcass away, then continues walking. “How much of your past you had to do to survive, I cannot judge.”

“Don’t. It won’t do you no good to keep diggin’.” He plays around with his jade coin in his left pocket. “The Guardian liked to do it, too. Too bad I can’t shoot ‘em.”

“As if you would shoot me.”

“No, but if you’re lookin’ to get shot, you’re on the right track.”

The rock of the caves slowly give way to great structures of bark and roots of patterned silver. The ground they step on is slowly dotted with exposed wood as they inch closer to the tree.

“Orin, then.”

“Where the hell did you get that name?”

“You were shouting in the Derelict when the shadows captured you.”

“Huh.” The Drifter frowns. “Really. Well, if I tell you everythin’ I know about her, you promise to stop snoopin’- Ah, damn. That’s exactly what I offered the Guardian.” His frown turns into a scowl as he curses under his breath.

“I will not pry if you do not want me knowing anything.” They round a corner, and the wood surfaces aplenty. They are getting closer. “I believe I knew that name. I do not remember much. But if there is anything I can tell, it is that she meant much to you. Is that not true?”

“No, you’re right,” the Drifter replies. “Orin… was somethin’, alright. We used to run together, me and her. Dawn of the City Age.” His face is one of a muted smile accompanying a glint in his eyes. “Times were different, then. We were different. I was different.”

“Would you care to tell me more, or will you leave me with such unsatisfying omissions?”

“Ouch, sister. Take it easy.” He pulls his hands out of his pockets and fidgets with his jade coin as he walks. “Orin was just someone I tagged along with, at first… no. More. She was a ticket to somethin’ larger, and I was hell-bent on going along for the ride. But she went deep into the Light. Tossed away our friendship because of one stupid title. _Dredgen_. Drank too much Vanguard juice, I reckon. Last I see her, she’s huntin’ down the Nine for a power beyond herself. 

She looked at the wrong place.”

“And Orin is now…”

His voice turns sharp. “The _Emissary_ is now a psychopath. Puppet of the Nine. She’s not the Orin I once knew. Big Awoken meanie with white skin and floating tendril-like cloak ya saw in the Prophecy? That’s her.”

The cave slowly shrinks into a small tunnel, and a grimace sets in on the Drifter’s face. “Never thought she’d come back.” He sighs, eyes downcast, if only for a moment, before returning his gaze on the path ahead. “Fun times, huh.”

“Of course.”

The tunnel abruptly opens up to reveal the majestic center of the Cradle. The Tree of Silver Wings, in all its paracausal opulence, shines an unnaturally perfect gray. Its trunk twists and spirals upward, patterned with circular smooth twists and turns, branches haphazardly asymmetrical yet whole in its elegant display of bomb logic. God rays enter from the large gap above the tree, illuminating the tree and casting a magnificent silhouette that dwarfs the two as they enter. Without the unsettling corruption of Savathun, the tranquil silence of the chamber is almost entrancing.

“The tree,” Eris mumbles. “Every time I look at it, I still stand in awe.” The Drifter says nothing; he silently takes in the entire view.

“Would you want Orin back here, Drifter?”

Drifter scoffs in response. “Whaddya think?”

A lightning bolt strikes somewhere far above the clearing. The following thunder shakes the walls of the cave, reminding the two of the looming Pyramid.

Eris approaches the tree, leaving the standing Drifter behind to observe. “We are like the Seed,” she begins. “In the face of great forces like the Traveler, or the Pyramid, we are malleable. Suggestible. And yet it is to these very forces we seek a means to an end, to a freedom from the perpetual war of paracausality.”

She touches the hard, smooth bark of the tree. Traces the patterns with a finger. “Light and Dark are so different, yet so intimately similar. One chooses to hope, to build, trusting that its children will blossom and help each other. It trusts its children with the power to burst forth like a bomb. And yet, inevitably, the children of the Light will know nothing than to serve it in eternality.”

“The other, however.” Eris steps into the shadow of the tree’s hollow, and her eyes begin to glow in the shade. “The Darkness is all-encompassing, drowning. Its countless spawn are oppressed, forever bound in a dance of blades. Its spawn are oppressors, constantly testing the edge of the sword. By the sword they fight, and by the sword they _die_.”

“Balance.” She enters the center of the tree’s trunk, where a ray of light mixes in with a wisp of Darkness, tainted by the Pyramid above. The juxtaposition wraps around her arm, and she bathes in the turbulent mixture of the Light and the Dark. “Balance is the key to which we wield both and not lose ourselves. To break free of the allure of the Light, we need to open our minds and see what is beyond. But to survive the oppression of the Dark, we must have strength. The strength to ensure that we will prevail in our own terms. The strength to trust that humanity can lead themselves to a greater future.”

She locks eyes with the Drifter, who is standing a few feet away. “A strength… of your own.” She notices his constant, clenched fists, the eyes that burn with despair, and the steeled look on his face. And she nods.

“The Guardian is special. When the time comes for their Seed to turn into their key to Darkness, they will be ready.” Eris holds her necklace on the palm of her hand and grips it firmly. “But we are not like the Guardian, and so we must find our own way to gain strength. Without a steady self, the Nightmares will consume you from the inside out. You will fall into the darkness as many have done in the past. For as strong as you are, Drifter, there are still little gaps into your soul that the Darkness will waste no time tearing into.”

“And believe me when I say, they will do _anything_ in their power to break you.”

The Drifter does not immediately respond. He stands still for what feels like a long moment. The sound of a tiny stream and the slight howling of wind surrounds the two. His eyes stay locked on Eris, at times wandering off in different directions. His breathing is slow, steady, rhythmic. He relaxes his fist. 

Without speaking, he turns the other direction.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the Derelict, and outta here.”

Eris glooms. “Living up to your name, rat? Running away from every little problem you face?”

“Listen.” The Drifter stops walking and partly turns his head to look back. 

He takes a second to collect himself.

“I respect you enough, Three-eyes. I _don’t_ run away. Not anymore. Not while they’re here. And I’ve got my own ways to deal with my problems.”

A subtle wave of ease washes over her. “So you won’t leave.”

“No. I’ll be back.” He resumes walking, and his footsteps grow fainter. “See you around, Moondust,” he calls out as he enters the tunnel.

Eris stays under the shadow of the Tree for a moment, silently basking in the calm of the chamber. She listens to the sound of the Drifter’s boots until they can no longer be heard. And once he leaves, all turns back to quiet serenity.

“Good luck,” she wishes him.

* * *

Eris follows the unmarked path back, climbing rocks and jumping on branches. Pebbles echo as they fall and impact solid rock. The lights in the caves from the cracks on the ceiling slowly dim - the day is giving way to a deep, rich blue. _I need to get back before nightfall._

The little tarp that marks her temporary home blows in the breeze. A smile creeps on her face as she exhales in relief. She shivers from the cold wind as she enters, closing the tarp behind her. She turns on the blowtorch and lights up the campfire. The wood begins to burn, slowly returning heat and light into her small space.

 _What shall I have for dinner today?_ She opens the Vanguard supply crates, then sighs in frustration. The fried rice earlier was supposed to be two days’ worth, if it were not for her voracious guest. She scans the contents of the box again. Two boxes of pemmican, a little bit of uncooked rice left, dried mangoes, and countless tubes of vitamin paste. _Acceptable._

She removes her heavy armor and heads to her tent to sleep.

Unbeknownst to her, out of sight and out of mind, crimson wisps of smoke gather on the ceiling.


	4. Deconstruction

The voice on the other side is one of a challenge, of mockery. “As a lightbearer, your very thoughts propel an ontological force. Should you wish it, your sheer will could conjure-”

_Oh, shut up._

“You know what?” He’s had enough. “Screw you too. You can’t see me, but I’m saluting you. With _one_ finger.”

The Drifter slams the control panel, and immediately the wayward frequency is cut. Something falls onto the Derelict’s metal floor and clatters. He doesn’t mind it. A small crackling comes through from the other side as the signal jammer shuts down.

“...rat. Rat. Are you alright?”

“Worrying again, Moondust? All good on my end.” He chuckles. “I’m touched.”

He hears Eris silently grumble. “I could not hear a single sound from you earlier, but perhaps the silence was better after all.”

“Ooh. Bummer.”

The Drifter returns his attention to the screen and watches the video feed of this newest run. A wind picks up in the desert. The Guardian, having stood in the timeless sand of the Prophecy to make contact with the Emissary for a good few minutes, turns around and starts walking back. Their sparrow races off towards the next encounter and onto the ribbon-laden race track.

Another failed attempt. It has been weeks since first contact with his elusive Emissary, and yet he still finds no success in calling her back. The itch at the back of his head pushes him to reconnect to the frequency, try one more time, but the sound of a sparrow’s engine drives those thoughts away.

 _We ain’t here for her._ He looks at the feed again. Smiles at the Guardian. _Thanks for all you do, kid._

He steps away from the control panel for a moment, leaving the Guardian’s fireteam to do their work of gathering answers and gear for the week. His gaze wanders to the wiring, to the random assortment of gear strewn about, and then to his bank. The glow in the machine allures him.

_She’s right. It’s time I try something new._

“Hey. We got anything planned for later?”

His Ghost blinks twice. No.

“Good. Set a course for Outpost Five. The Pilgrim Guard one.” He flicks his coin in his hand. The symbol that shows next is one of three circles, with straight lines crossing through their center. He stares at it for a second, then frowns, pocketing the coin again. “It’s time I visit some old friends.”

* * *

She watches as the screen turns to static. Stays in her seat and sits as she hears the communications line quiet down in a way that should not be possible. Listens to the humming of the Drifter’s workshop, as it slowly fades into the monotonous buzz of static. The beeping of a transmitter attempting to reconnect returns, and for a moment she wishes she could open a portal straight to the rogue’s musty basement dwelling and give him a good slap.

She can, though. A sigh. Beyond a slight scowl, she does nothing else. _This is his… way, I suppose._

She shakes her head, but does not comment any further, for fear of inciting something else.

The cacophony of the lone Guardian’s attempt at mastery tunes itself out. They have been at this for hours. She tries not to mind, even as the tenacity of the Young Wolf begins to rub her the wrong way. With nothing better to do, though, her thoughts move to the Tree.

_Perhaps I could study it while assisting the Guardian. That would be a better use of my time._

With a button press, she detaches the console’s screen and keeps the headset hanging around her neck. Her hands move to the satchel sitting by the tent’s entrance, and slowly the bag begins to fill with everything she needs. A pack of salted pemmican sits beside her trusty leather notebook, and a Loud Lullaby nests hidden underneath the other objects. With fastened armor and wrapped trinkets, she heads to the mouth of the cave. Her flashlight flicks on.

Outside, the wind rustles her cloak. It is already nighttime, but she does not feel tired. She absorbs her surroundings as she trudges through cave dirt and steep inclines. Around her, bullet holes and blightmarks now riddle the once-clean rock of the Cradle’s cavern system - remnants of a week-after-week ritual of combat and desecration, made possible by the Guardian’s dedication and the Witch Queen’s ruthless power play. The natural weariness announces itself as a stalactite formation breaks off, impacting the ground with a loud crash. She ducks to dodge the shards.

After a minute of walking, she emerges from the small tunnel that precedes her destination. The shade of an inactive pyramid and the tranquil of being left alone shrouds the Tree’s clearing in an unsettling darkness. The silence of the space is only interrupted by the sound of Eris’s boots, as she approaches the tree’s hollow trunk.

She had not noticed it before. She notices it now.

_The Tree is… different._

The free, wild growth of the Tree’s silver bone-like branches are muted. The little twinkling branch tips are no longer there, now trimmed with angular, straight cuts that flatten the tree’s image. Dark patches cover the gaps in between the many splits and forks, and together they cast a fuller shadow over the tree’s inner trunk. A small, dark yellow vein creeps around a few segments. Eris moves closer to observe, and the moment she touches the growth, she feels it.

The black vein pulses, ebbs and flows, breathes. Like a cancer.

_The Darkness is doing… something. To the Tree._

A chill runs up her spine as she traces the vein. The small dark line goes on and on, up through the tree trunk. She lets go once she sees all the other tiny changes to the tree. She stands still, absorbing the enveloping grasp of the Darkness.

A red smoke enters the corner of her eye.

“No.” Immediately, she turns around, Loud Lullaby drawn and readied.

There is no one behind her.

She sighs in relief. _Paranoia, Eris. They are far from here, now._ She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, counts to three, then slowly opens her eyes-

“Gah!”

Her hand clenches in shock as she fires a stray shot from her hand cannon. It goes off target, ricochets off the ground, and hits the tree. The Nightmare, however, does not budge. It hovers right in front of her face, almost touching. It does not move.

Her headset clatters on the ground. She paces her breathing, then looks straight at the shadow. “Stay away. I have defeated you before, wretched scum.”

She levels the gun at its head, and fires three quick shots straight at the Nightmare. _Crack, crack, crack!_ The bullets impact the shadow, and it disperses in a violent flash of red. A ball of Nightmare essence drops onto the ground. She reaches down to touch it, feels the power of the Nightmare surge through her, then fires three more shots straight into the orb. It detonates with a piercing screech.

The wailing explosion and the reverberating gunshots fade away. A breath. She scans the room with her weapon drawn. The deafening silence returns to the clearing, and the only thing Eris can hear is the sound of her breathing.

She holsters the hand cannon back into the satchel, and heads back to pick up her dropped headset. She bends down to check its condition. Scuffed and dusty, but otherwise still operational. She slips it on, expecting to hear the Guardian midway through ravaging the Kell Echo.

Static.

_Hm. Irritating. Did I break the receiver?_

_“You stay.”_

_Huh?_ Eris looks right and left, but sees nobody. “Another one. Reveal yourself, Nightmare.”

_“You are strong. You are… powerful. And yet, you stay.”_

Another dark shadow begins to manifest in front of her. Its form shifts through various mockeries of past and present friends, before settling with a nondescript crimson cloud. Tendrils of red slither across the hollow trunk, surrounding the lone human.

Eris does not budge.

“You are correct. I am strong. I am powerful.”

The Nightmare cocks its head in feigned interest.

“And I do not need the Darkness to tell me so.” She draws her hand cannon, fires a volley of shots, and watches as they impact the incorporeal, destroying the dark body. Smoke wafts from her Loud Lullaby as it sends the crimson cloud to rest.

“Do not mock me,” Eris scoffs. She spits on the remnants of the shadow.

The little fog of red that remains hover around her for a while, pulsing, waiting. The impact of the bullets trace visible trails of the shadow’s smoke. The Nightmare remains - shattered, damaged - but it does not dissipate as quickly as it should. Eris watches it with contempt, eyes glaring and weapon ready.

The cloud beats with red. “Such power. Such will.” It reassembles itself, shifting and shimmering and molding into something more grotesque. “Ain’t that right, Moondust?”

“Disgusting. I couldn’t give a damn.”

“You lie.” Another Nightmare appears, face to face with her, and immediately closes the distance. “You care about them, but already, your people show their cracks within.”

The earlier Nightmare, now turned into a visage of the Rat, begins to pace around her, fiddling with its hand cannon and coin. The mockery speaks. “Orin? Orin, are you there?”

“No. Be quiet.”

“We have no reason to lie.”

Eris feels a tightness in her chest. Part of her duties include guiding the Guardian. But, days ago, as the Young Wolf continued to press onto the realm of the Nine, she started to notice things. In between the many attempts the Guardian took to master the foreign dungeon alone without dying, she had begun to notice gaps in her connection. Short ones, at first. But then they grew longer and longer. And when the connection returned, the Guardian would always already be at the ribbon road. Always. As if time had _skipped_ itself.

Her broken headset suddenly reactivates.

“And he is not the only one. The Young Wolf.” A crackling comes through from across the planets. She hears a tortured, labored breathing on the other side - the Guardian is heavily wounded. “A final gambit approaches. Your hero will soon turn to ancient power. How long can you hold them? How long will you watch as they free-fall into loss?”

She pushes the shadow back. “They have walked the grey better than anyone could. They will _not_ fall for your temptation.”

To her left, she hears a body fall. The Drifter drops onto his knees, arms lifeless and weak. “Moondust…” she hears him wail. “There ain’t nothin’ left, three-eyes. We gotta… we gotta…”

The shadow that calls itself the Drifter collapses sideways, and hits the ground with a thud.

“Rat!”

The voice laughs. “Help them, child. You can help them.”

“No. You are wrong. He has his own way.” Her voice wavers. “He- is stronger than even myself-”

The red cloud glows. “His path will lead him to desolation. His path is one of death.”

“He has survived for long. He won’t fall to you.”

A disembodied, croaking voice surrounds her. _“Orin… Guardian… Moon… dust…”_

“I don’t give a damn about your words!”

The red cloud pulses with strength. “You say such things, but the words ring true.”

“No!” Eris, survivor of the Hellmouth, forsaken of the Light, bearer of a darker power, infuses all her strength into a punch of epic proportions. Her fist tears apart the air in front of her with the power of a Hive ogre and the Stasis of ancient strength. The Nightmare resists, glitching in and out of existence, but the green flame rips apart atoms and connections, severs the paracausality of the dark, and explodes in a blinding flash.

The smell of soulfire and ash surrounds her. Eris Morn needs no Light to fight her nightmares. She stares at where her tormentor stood, and stays for a minute.

_Orin._

The voice of the Drifter echoes in her ears. Her determination slowly fades, and she slowly lets go of the tight grip on her hand cannon. A sigh. She moves to holster it.

_Oh, Drifter. Why do you feel the need to-_

The doubt seeps into her. It senses opportunity. A flash of crimson blinks from where the Nightmare stood.

_“We were correct, after all.”_

“What- wh-?”

_“Embrace the darkness.”_

A wave of pitch black appears. Eris turns right, left, looks up, tries to get her bearings, but the shadows begin to completely surround her. A thousand blood-red figures emerge from the dark. “No, no!” She attempts to escape, pushing the Nightmares away, but the thick cloud paralyzes her arms. She can only swim. She is swimming in the Deep.

_“You can save them. You can save him.”_

Crimson tendrils snake around her arm, gripping it. She is lifeless. She is lost. The veins of dark seep under her armor, disable her weapons, rips each and every little trinket of hers away. After all, there is one more person to whom she has not held a trinket yet.

“No! Stay away!”

_“You will not need to lose any more friends. You will not need to lose everything you have built.”_

A disembodied face emerges from the dark and meets her eye-to-eye. It shifts and transforms across a plethora of different faces. Sai Mota. Vell Tarlowe. Omar Agah. Eriana-3. Even Toland, the Shattered, the betrayer. But none of them wrench her heart. They are past. She resists. She resists.

_“We have come to save you.”_

Asher Mir’s face blinks into view, and she remembers his insane, broken-down hopelessness. Ikora. She remembers her loss and her pain, once from the Red War and once more from losing Cayde. Zavala. She remembers a broken, lost man, gripping shifting sands, losing touch of the present in the service of the past.

The Guardian. She remembers all that they have done for her, and wishes she could have done more for them.

The Drifter. She feels everything.

She lets go.

 _“The Darkness will be your_ _**salvation.**_ _”_

As the shadows envelop her whole body, her heart wishes for all to be alright. The dark artifact she keeps with her comes out of the satchel, and its green-fire orb begins to flash and burn brighter. The bone senses pain. The bone senses hope. The bone grants wishes, O bearer mine, and so it shall.

A hive portal opens under the unconscious body of one Eris Morn, and then takes her away.

* * *

He retraces the steps of an old Drifter, one that no longer lives.

The Derelict hangs in close orbit, watching over him in case he requires a quick exit. The ramshackle remnants of a building that once was home to a solid contingent of heroes, before they were given the name Guardians, stand in front of him.

Ways away from this place, separated by a three-day hike across snowy mountains and alluringly treacherous forests, lay the City of days past. He remembers the hikes. Remembers the faces of the people he protected, the fellow Guardians he fought with, and their tears of joy as they arrived at what would be their new home.

Painful memories, too. He remembers a young, energetic face. He remembers her disappearance, only for her to reemerge torn after years of hunting a Jovian horror under the command of the Queen who could only command, and of whom her friend no longer needed to serve, for the Traveler had taken away memories of her past life, too.

“Never thought I’d come here again.”

This was where it all began. This is where this story ends.

“Sorry, Orin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for breaking the upload schedule!  
> The remaining chapters will come in time before the end of the Season of Arrivals.
> 
> As an aside, thank you to all my readers. I could not have expected this turnout for my first piece of published fanfiction. Look forward to more!


	5. Interlude

**~kzzht**

-this thing on? Oh, now you work, huh, you slimy little-

Ah, whatever!

Tape number… I don’t know.

Addressed to… ah, hell, I don’t care. Alright, alright.

Uh. Hey there, kid.

Last time I left you some tapes, I said I’d be leavin’ you with a little seat - a golden ticket, one-way ride outta this hellhole they call the Last City. Extinction-level event… yeah. Survival. Escape. 

Funny.

The way life works, yeah?

Listen. Drifter’s tired of runnin’, and I’m puttin’ that out there, plain and simple, ‘cause I think you all should know that. And I know you know that, too, ‘cause we’re all here right now, under the shadow of the Pyramid, and we’re all dancin’ in the dark and playin’ with fire, gearing ourselves with weapons borne out of somethin’ half the Guardians in town don’t even have the gall to look at.

I mean, look at the Tower! Look at all these shiny new guns I gave you. Remember Malfeasance? Yeah. Probably not. No one in their right mind would use that gun anymore, nah. The latest trend’s all… different, now. Effigy. Falling Guillotine. Heck, when did you all get so cozy with sharp edges, anyway?

And all of that gear… what are we grindin’ for if we ain’t gonna use em?

After all, our humanity ain’t worth salt if we leave everyone behind.

Hmph.

That old hag… 

Moondust taught me that. Yeah. Lotta other things, too, but…

I told ya not to pry, all those months ago, but ya did it anyway. Well. It’s been a full year since then, and I just… oughta let ya know. I ain’t runnin’ from the past. Not anymore.

Right.

Drifter out.

… 

Three-eyes.

I know you go play with some real weird Hive magic out there - and even a dip in the Dark, too - and somehow these tapes always go to the wrong people, for some damn weird reason, and I don’t know why it keeps happenin’, all I know is that it does.

Right.

So on the off chance… off chance you’re listenin’ to this- well.

Orin.

Orin… was special. Orin was the reason why - for a lot of things. Deep in the Dark Age you needed a confidante, someone you know you could trust. When everybody’s got a gun and a six-inch blade breathing down your back, you keep your finger on the trigger.

Everyone… except for Orin. And Orin… 

Isn’t here anymore.

But as long as I got people like you, and people like our friendly neighborhood Hero, and, heck, even that slimy, pompous psychopath Shin, even if he’s retired and all.

Or our other common friend.

Yeah.

No need for Orin anymore.

I’m about to head out. Gotta pick up one last thing - trudge through the history books for a bit. My history book. Then… 

Aw, hell, why the hell am I doin’ this to myself?!

Ghost! Cut the tape, delete it all. Yeah, the part for the Guardian, too. Why the hell would I-

_[RECORDING STOPPED]_

* * *

[Written on a piece of hive leather parchment]:

_Ikora,_

I was wrong.

I was so, so wrong.

I’ve done many things since our past correspondence. The Deep reaches out, and I find myself in close proximity often. I thought I overcame everything. I thought I was strong enough to parlay with the Deep - to play the game of life, to dance between blade and bomb, wishing for the chance to lead and understand.

I am strong enough to dance with the devil. That is true. I no longer need to be bathed in Light to combat the evils that stir.

But something… something is making me wane.

Strength is not a constant. Strength ebbs and flows, rises in times of need and distress, and falls in times of crisis and despair. The ability to resist and to parry and to thrust in return is not something that anyone can hold onto for long periods of time.

A master swordsman can fight off one, can fight off ten, but a hundred will ensure a timely death, and a culling by the blade.

I cannot fight this alone. I require… others.

Perhaps- perhaps I will make more trinkets. The Guardian, first. I presumed that it would be true, but on second thought, I do not think I need a trinket. Their actions already speak for us all. Their words and their gunshots ripple across the planets, and upon each wake of their footsteps on this system I feel at ease. I do not need anything from them.

Also two, for the Gallant… and for the Scribe, of course. I would not need to wander far away to visit his little coven and inform him of my thoughts. He would scoff at the idea, insult my emotional fragility, spit on the idea of sentimentality. Then, send me off with a Vex auto-adjusting polarity plate, or a piece of his cursed arm, eyes glaring and mouth sneering, as if that piece of radiolaria and metal could even hold against all that I have seen.

I am curious now. What would you give me? A Shard of the Traveler? A piece of a Ghost?

No - of course not. Only the Drifter would give me something so… crass.

The Drifter.

~~Where has this weakness COME FROM and WHY is it HERE~~

[scribbling and scratches fill the next few lines.]

/ \ / \ / \ / / / \ / \ \ / /\ \ \ \ / / / 

_Germaine._

Come back with a trinket of your own.

Come back and tell me that your spirits are lifted, and that your sorrows no longer weigh upon you. Tell me that your arms are free and unburdened, so that you can help me lift the burdens of a discussion with a darker dominion.

You are much stronger than you think you are. You can overcome the voice in your head that screams her name a thousand times over. She is no longer here.

And, from thereon - please. Do not forget your home, and do not forget us in pursuit of what escapes the Nine have to offer.

A pity.

Some days I wish I could escape into the nameless third. As much as I despise your cowardice, the idea of a slithering escape is so… inviting. The nothingness that precludes the Garden. To dream of an existence away from the never-yet-now perpetual struggle between the Light and the Dark.

That luxury is not something that I, nor humanity, can afford.

There is no more Vanguard. There has been no Queen. I must be their leader.

I must quell the dark.

_I have lost too much, but I will NOT lose any more. I will NOT._

[page is torn here]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! I am not dead - I've just been very, very, veeeery busy.
> 
> But now that I've settled in more, I've decided on the remaining amount of chapters. Look forward to four more after this epistolary interlude, as we conclude the short story of The Mystic and the Rat! (Yes, I have an ending planned! I'm not an author with no plan.)
> 
> And a huge thank you to all the readers that have left kudos, bookmarks, and comments. I love reading them and receiving notifications - it brightens up my day to know that my work has left an impression on somebody.
> 
> Onward into a drifting past.


End file.
